Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands; Triumph to the younger king. Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Sisters, hence with spurs of speed : Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry, to the field! UPROSE the king of men with speed, His shaggy throat he open'd wide, Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin ; Onward still his way he takes, (The groaning earth beneath him shakes,) Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme; Thrice pronounced, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead : PROPHETESS. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mould'ring bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest? ODIN. A traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a warrior's son. Thou the deeds of light shalt know; For whom yon glitt'ring board is spread, PROPHETESS. Mantling in the goblet see ODIN. Once again my call obey, Prophetess, arise, and say, G What dangers Odin's child await, PROPHETESS. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close : Leave me, leave me to repose. ODIN. Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who th' avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt? PROPHETESS. In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace comprest, A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam, Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile Flaming on the fun'ral pile. |